Getting moved, being moved

My moving house is proceeding apace. Today, with the help of half a dozen burly friends and a rented lorry my things were moved to the new flat. In the end, the collected stuff of twenty years weren't all that much, the boxes barely covering the floor of the lorry, lifting it down from the flat taking barely half an hour. It was with fairly mixed feelings I looked at the pile of cardboard boxes. Or would have, if I'd had the time to think very much during the actual move; this is more retrospective emotion.

Hauling the stuff into the new flat was also quite quickly done and then I was subjected to a torrent of good advice on how to renovate the flat and what ludicrous objects that the prior owner had left behind would absolutely, no excuses, have to go. And I listened, yet again amazed at how many friends will come to my help when I need it, fearfully standing at the edge of the diving-board, looking into the abyss.

Tomorrow I'll continue spackling walls, then cover up the floor and start painting.


Martin said...

Seeing the purple flush knob on the john, I was at first convinced that the former inhabitant had been a single woman with girly tastes in interior decoration.

thnidu said...

In the house we lived in for some 20 years in the suburbs of Boston, the bathroom (loo, WC) was tiled entirely in pink. The walls, above the tile level, were covered in silver wallpaper with cutesy bathroom cartoons on them.

thnidu said...

That should have been "on it", or, even better, "".